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LITTLE POEMS 



IN A MOTHER'S LIFE 





BY MRS. SUSAN TEALL PERRY. 




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CHICAGO : 
MOSES WARREN, 103 STATE STREET. 

•1877. 



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COPYRIGHT. 

1877. 

By Moses Warren. 



Preface 



IT is through the earnest solicitation of friends that 
these poems are given to the public. They were 
written in odd moods and moments, amid the duties 
and cares of the household: sometimes sitting by the 
baby's cradle, oftener amid the children's prattle in the 
nursery, and some of them in the still hours after the 
day's duties were over and the little ones asleep. Then 
the consciousness of duties imperfectly performed, and 
other responsibilities of a mother's life, pressed heavily; 
and the song that was sung was the overflowing of the 
tired soul. Some of the songs strayed into print, and 
have been widely circulated; and letters have come to 
us from mothers whom we have never seen, expressing 
the comfort and sympathy they have derived from them. 
Trusting that these poems may be a bond of unity 
between the hearts of many mothers who have had the 
same experience, the author submits them with tenderest 
sympathy and love. 




Introductory, 

Three Little Chairs, 

Two Little Pairs of Boots, 

Ben's Straw Hat, 

Patchie, 

The Little Robe of White, 

One of Christ's Little Ones, 

Catching the Bird, 

The Bud's Winter Cradle, 

The Lazy Bumble-bee, 

Praying for a Pair of Boots, 

The Boy in the Garden, 

Bessie McKay's Journey, . 

Bunnie's Journey, 

The Maid and Her Milkpail, 

Next Christmas Morning, 

Whistle When You're Coming Through, 

Our Baby, .... 

Frankie's New Year's Gift, 

The Nest in the 'Maple Tree, 

Missing, ..... 

By-and-By, . . . 

The Orphan's Will, 



PAGE. 

7 

9 
ii 

i3 

15 
17 

*9 

22 

24 
26 
29 
32 
35 
37 
40 

43 
44 
46 
48 

5i 

53 
56 
5$ 



CONTENTS. 



Bella's Bundle, 

Christmas Eve, 

Little Snow, 

Waiting for the Train, . 

Only One Little Beam, 

Twenty Years Ago, 

Threescore Years and Ten, 

Watching the Cows, 

The Lighthouse Bell, 

"She Always Made Home Happy," 

My Boy, .... 

Christmas Eve, 

Making Pictures, 

My Neighbor 'Cross the Way, 

The Minister's Door-Bell, . 

A Mother's Prayer, 

The Angel Wings, 

My Good, Old-Fashioned Mother, 

Watching at the Gate, 

Saturday Night, . 

Porter John's Child, . 

The Folded Hands, 

Heaven, 

Are All the Children In? 



PAGE, 
62 

65 

68 

73 

75 

79 
81 

84 

87 
8 9 
92 
95 
97 

99 
101 

104 
106 
109 
in 

113 
116 
119 
121 
124 




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K mother's life is full of prose, 
*^^ From early dawn till daylight's close; 
But oft, amid her household cares, 
Some little poem, unawares, 
Is written down within her heart, 
And of her life becomes a part. 

Some loving words a child may say, 
A golden curl long put away, 
A half-worn shoe upon the floor, 
An outgrown dress the baby wore 
A broken toy, or faded flower, 
May touch the heart-strings any hour. 

Then come thoughts none else may know, 

While unseen tears in silence flow, 

Teaching, amid the toil and strife, 

The higher poetry of life, 

Which lifts the soul, so earthward bound, 

Where greater strength and faith are found. 




4v^ 



HJhree Little ithairs. 




HEY sat alone by the bright, wood fire, 
The gray-haired dame and the aged sire, 

Dreaming of the days gone by: 
The tear-drops fell on each wrinkled cheek, 
They both had thoughts that they could not speak, 
As each heart uttered a sigh. 

For their sad and tearful eyes descried 
The three little chairs, placed side by side, 

Against the sitting-room wall: 
Old-fashioned enough, as there they stood, 
Their seats of flag and their frames of wood, 

With their backs so straight and tall. 

Then the sire shook his silvery head, 
And with trembling voice he gently said: 

" O, Mother, those empty chairs ! 
They bring us such sad, sad thoughts tonight, 
We '11 put them forever out of sight, 
In the small, dark room upstairs." 



IO THREE LITTLE CHAIRS. 

But she answered: "Father, no, not yet, 
For I look at them and I forget 

That the children went away; 
The boys come back, and our Mary, too, 
With her apron on of checkered blue, 

And sit here every day. 

Johnny still whittles a ship's tall masts, 
And Willie his leaden bullets casts, 

While Mary her patchwork sews: 
At evening time three childish prayers 
Go up to God from those little chairs, 

So softly that no one knows. 

Johnny comes back from the billowy deep, 
Willie awakes from his battle-field sleep, 

To say a good-night to me; 
Mary's a wife and mother no more, 
But a tired child whose play-time is o'er, 

And comes to rest on my knee. 

So let them stand there, though empty now;. 
And, every time when alone we bow 

At the Father's throne to pray, 
We'll ask to meet the children above, 
In our Saviour's home of rest and love, 

Where no child goeth away." 







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ITuuo Little Pairs of Boots. 




WO little pairs of boots, tonight, 

Before the fire are drying; 
'Two little pairs of tired feet 
In a trundle-bed are lying. 
The tracks, they left upon the floor, 
Make me feel much like sighing. 

Those little boots with copper toes! 

They run the livelong day; 
And oftentimes I almost wish 

That they were miles away: 
So tired am I to hear so oft 

Their heavy tramp at play. 

They walk about the new-plowed ground, 

Where mud in plenty lies: 
It is rolled up in marbles round, 

And baked in little pies; 
At night upon the nursery floor 
In every shape it dries! 

Today I was disposed to scold; 

But, when I look, tonight, 
At those little boots by the fire, 



12 TWO LITTLE PAIRS OF BOOTS. 

With copper toes so bright, 
I think how sad my heart would be, 
To put them out of sight. 

For, in a trunk upstairs I Ve laid 
Two socks of white and blue; 

If called to put those boots away, 
O God! what should I do? 

I mourn that there are not, tonight, 
Three pairs instead of two. 

I mourn because I thought how nice 
My neighbor 'cross the way 

Could keep her carpets all the year 
From getting worn or gray; 

Yet well I know she 'd smile to own 
Some little boots today! 

We mothers weary get, and worn, 

Over our load of care; 
But how we speak to those little ones 

Let each of us beware, 
For what would our firesides be, tonight, 

If no little boots were there? 




Ben's Straw liat. 




EN'S straw hat is a comical sight — 
A comical sight indeed; 
It 's ragged and torn, and looks much like 
A friend most sadly in need. 

5 T was only week before last it came 
Brand-new from the store in town, 

But it has wasted "powerful fast"— 

There 's not much left but the crown. 

You need not laugh at the grotesque hat, 

Or of its figure make fun; 
You do not know how many good deeds 

That very same hat has done. 

It 's carried hay each morn to the horse ; 

It's brought the eggs from the mow; 
It 's caught the gayest of butterflies, 

And carried salt to the cow. 

It held the worms we dug in the rain, 

Each time when fishing we went; 
It brought the berries for grandma's tea 

With the kindest, best intent. 



1 4 BEAT'S STRA W HA T. 

'Tis working beyond our strength, you know, 
That makes us weary and worn. 

No wonder Ben's hat is feeble now, 
No wonder it's soiled and torn! ' 

We won't put it on the shelf because 

It's seen the best of its days; 
But will hang it in sight, for the good 

It did in so many ways. 




^ 




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"Patchie." 




HE bell had rung, the school was out, 
And from the hall with busy feet 
The boys rushed forth with laugh and shout, 
And crowded through the village street, 
Like prisoners from their cells broke loose, 
Escaping from the calaboose. 

Across the street, and all alone, 

A small boy walked with rapid gait, 
Like one unknowing and unknown, 

With head erect and form so straight; 
He heeded not the crowd that cried, 
"See 'Patchie' on the other side!" 

I wondered much why this should be, 
But when I looked I knew too well: 

The noblest of them all was he; 

But, sad to think, more sad to tell, 

He from the crowd had been detached 

Because his pantaloons were patched! 

No answering word escaped him there; 

I watched him as he climbed the hill, 
Then thought, "Each other's burdens bear, 



1 6 "PATCHIE." 

And thus the law of Christ fulfill;" 
And so I joined him on the road, 
Hoping to lighten his sad load. 

I spoke in loving words, and kind; 

He, smiling, looked up in my face — 
He had a true and noble mind — 

And answered with a manly grace, 
"My father, sir, has long been dead, 
And mother earns our daily bread. 

To school she sends me every day; 

I do the best there that I can, 
And mother says she '11 get her pay 

When I grow up to be a man; 
Kind sir, I hope that I shall be 
All that my mother wishes me. 

They call me 'Patchie;' I don't care," 

Said he, while passing through the gate; 
" It 's what we are, not what we wear, 

That makes us good and makes us great!" 
He touched his cap, and said "Good-night;" 
I whispered, "noble, brave, and right." 

I started on my homeward way — 

Not only boys, but men, I thought, 

Pass by the poor ones every day; 

Only the rich and grand are sought; 

This world, so full of foolish pride, 

Puts "Patchie" on the other side. 



Che Little Robe of "White 




N a rosewood cradle a baby lay; 
Its mother was stitching, stitching away 

On a little robe of white. 
One foot on the rocker, she hoped to keep 
Her frolicsome baby for hours asleep, 
To finish her work that night. 

In every stitch of the garment she wrought, 
That loving mother fastened a thought — 

Fond hopes for that little one — 
And smiled on her babe with a happy pride, 
As it slept in its cradle by her side, 

Till that little robe was done. 

Then she folded up the cambric and lace, 
And kissed her little one's chubby face, 

That smiled in its infant glee. 
She tossed it up and down in the air: 
" How pretty you '11 look, sweet babe, when you wear 

That new little robe!" said she. 



In a rosewood coffin a baby lay — 
Its mother had wept the long night away, 
Watching its slow, dying breath. 

2 



[§ THE LITTLE ROBE OF WHITE. 

With it clasped to her breast she prayed to keep 
Her darling baby from going to sleep 
In the cold, cold arms of death. 

They buried the babe in the garment wrought, 
Whose every stitch held a hopeful thought, 

From that loving mother's sight. 
On the marble stone she wrote • with a tear, 
"How many cherished hopes lie buried here, 

In that little robe of white!" 



In the dear Savior's arms a baby lay, 
From its small rosewood coffin far away, 

In the realms of love and light. 
The angels folded a garment about 
Its little form, which would never wear out 

A wee, seamless robe of white. 




iDne of Christ's Little iDnes, 




was just at dusk of an autumn day, 
»ne of Christ's little ones threaded her way 
Thro' the crowded streets of the city's din: 
The clothes about her were ragged and thin; 
The little face peeped from the hood so torn, 
And, like the old clothes, was weary and worn. 

Thousands of people had passed on the way 

The little girl took going home that day: 

The minister, dressed in his good, warm clothes, 

Passed her right by. O, how little he knows, 

When he prays for white robes his flock to wear, 

That one of Christ's lambs wandered shivering there! 

Hundreds of children, by baptism given 
To the Good Shepherd who dwells in heaven; 
Sunday-school teachers, who often rehearse 
"Suffer the children" — that dear little verse : — 
All passed on their way. Not one of them knew 
That she was one of Christ's little ones, too. 

Not long ere the little girl passed from sight, 

Into an alley, where even the light 

Was ashamed to be found — just gave one peep 



20 ONE OF CHRIST'S LITTLE ONES. 

In earliest dawn, when the rich w r ere asleep — 
Up a rude staircase then tremblingly fled, 
And threw herself down on an old straw bed. 

Down the pale cheeks fell the tears, one by one; 
She said to herself: " Why, what have I done, 
That I am a beggar with clothes all torn — 
My feet so cold and so weary and worn, 
Tramping the streets, from morning until night, 
For a few pennies to buy me a bite?" 

But the childish grief was quite soon forgot; 
That sad little one, tho' she knew it not, 
With tears in her eyes had fallen asleep. 
Angels were watching, Christ's foundling to keep;. 
Yes, angels had come up those old back-stairs, 
And o'er Christ's little one watched unawares. 

Sweet is the sleep of the children, I ween, 
In warm little cribs, their faces just seen, 
As they nestle above the clothes, tucked tight; 
With loving kisses of mother's good-night; — 
But sweeter far looked that dear little head, 
When those angels pillowed that old, straw bed. 

When the morning gray, through the dingy glass, 
Sent its feeble rays, and the night had passed, 
The beggar girl awoke. " Oh ! mother dear, 
Do you know," she said, " somebody 's been here ? 
Two smiling ones — they were both dressed in white, 
And around their heads they wore wreaths of light. 



ONE OF CHRIST'S LITTLE ONES. 21 

They came in this room, and they did n't seem hurt 
When their dresses swept through the sand and dirt; 
They passed not by, like the ladies in town, 
Holding their clothes lest they should touch my gown. 
And, mother, they bade me not beg today, 
They 're coming tonight to take me away. 

They live in a place where the streets are gold, 

Where children's feet never ache with the cold; 

And they have to cross a river so wide; 

The city is built on the other side. 

On their wings they '11 carry me all the way, 

So I will not be tired, you know, today. 

They told me we 'd pass thro' a pearly gate, 
But I thought outside they would bid me wait; 
For, mother, my clothes are tattered and thin, 
And I could not think they would let me in; 
But the shining ones said a dress of white 
Would be ready for me to wear tonight." 

The little one waited, but not in vain; 

For, true to their promise, the angels came. 

Along the dark alley they softly stepped. 

While the weary workers all soundly slept; 

And they took, from those haunts of want and sin, 

That one of Christ's little ones, home to him. 





iCatching the Birb, 




UNNING over with glee, brimful of joy, 
Rushed into the house our dear little boy. 
44 O, mamma!" he cried, "out there on the rail 
Is the sweetest bluebird, 
And its song I just heard! 
Please give me some salt to put on its tail. 
Grandpapa told me that was a sure way 
To catch pretty birds on a bright, spring day." 

With a handful of salt the glad boy sped, 
But at his approach the bluebird soon fled. 
The boy, nothing daunted, followed its trail, 

Until, weary and tried, 

He came back to mv side. 
44 The thing is to get the salt on its tail" 
He said in sad tones, the tears running down 
His sweet, chubby face, so ruddy and brown. 

44 Grandpa ought to be 'shamed of what he 's done — 
Fooling a little boy ! It is n't much fun. 
He knew all the time the birdie would fly, 



CATCHING THE BIRD. 

When I came up so near; 

For he looked very queer — 
Laughed when he saw it sail up to the sky. 
I'll make grandpa pay for fooling me so; 
I can hide his gold spectacles, you know!" 



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Che Bub's Winter iCrable, 




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HEN the chill Autumn time is here, 
And icy Winter draweth near, 
The leaves drop off and die. 
They leave the buds all fast asleep, 
Their little ones whom God doth keep, 
Until the Spring draws nigh. 

The buds are motherless, but yet 
There 's One who never does forget 

They need His constant care. 
And so He very kindly takes 
Each little bud, and softly makes 

Its good, warm cradle there. 

He lines it with the warmest down, 
And, though the tree is bare and brown, 

Their blankets keep them tight 
From the cold rain and colder snow, 
From the chill winds that rudely blow 

Thro' day time and thro' night. 

They 're just as warm as baby dear, 
We have at home all wrapped up here; 



THE BUD'S WINTER CRADLE. 25 

And fear no more the blast. 
And so they sleep secure and still, 
Rocked by the winds, and lulled until 

The Winter time is past. 

Then comes the pleasant, warm Spring time, 
When the glad, laughing, bright sunshine 

Awakes them from their sleep; 
They stretch and yawn a little while, 
But soon they 're wide awake, then smile, 

And from their cradles creep. 

This is a working world, they know; 
They hurry very fast, and grow 

To beautify the tree. 
Their childhood's life is very brief, 
Each bud so soon becomes a leaf, 

And gladdens you and me. 





Che Lazy Bumble-bee. 



HE clock was at the stroke of twelve; 
Hot it was, and sunny. 
A fat and lazy bumble-bee 
Started out for honey, 
But she hadn't any pocketbook, 
She had n't any money. 

She lived on credit all the while, 

And never paid a bill; 
She sneaked into the flowers' store, 

And took away her fill 
Of nice, sweet things, but never said : 
"Kind friends, be it your will!" 

She slept in bed so late this morn, 

That all the thrifty bees 
Had done their marketing, and gone 

Back home to take their ease. 
The jars were empty, and, chagrined, 

She hid among the trees. 

Thought Mrs. Bee, "It's dinner time;; 

Why won't some one invite 
Me home with her, and offer me 






THE LAZY BUMBLE-BEE. 2J 

A dainty little bite? 
There's nothing on my pantry-shelf 
To tempt my appetite." 

The bee looked from her hiding place 

Over to Tulip Square; 
She thought that there • must surely be 

Most splendid dinners there. 
They were the aristocracy, 

And she must have a share. 

" There comes that curious old thing," 

Said Mrs. Tulip, proud; 
"The one that's always lunching 'round, 

And buzzing out so loud; 
How dare she come to call on me? 

She is not of our crowd!" 

But Mrs. Bee a schemer was, 

With keen and cunning wit; 
She flattered Mrs. Tulip well, 

And got the dainty bit; 
Then said she feared the sun might brings 

An apoplectic fit. 

So Mrs. Tulip bade her stay 

To rest her aching head; 
And Mrs. Bee was but too glad 

To see the nice spare bed, 
And sleep awhile, for once, beneath 

That lovely, gorgeous spread. 



28 



THE LAZY BUMBLE-BEE. 

The lazy bee fell fast asleep; 

When came the soft twilight, 
The tulip closed the doors all up, 

And locked the bee in tight. 
Perhaps it was a joke to her — 

The bee was in a fright. 

But when the doors opened at morn, 

Off to her home away 
The bee, without a "thank you," flew 

In sorrow and dismay: 
She found her house demolished quite, 

Her children gone astray. 




Praying for a Pair of Boots 




'VE never had a pair of boots," 

Said little Willie Gray, 
'And I was four on Monday last,, 
Going on five today. 
My mother says I am too small; 

I know I 'd grow so high, 

If I 'd a pair of red-topped boots, 

As most to reach the sky. 

And then, you know, I 'd earn a lot 

Of money 'round the town, 
Putting in coal for 'Squire Jones, 

And wood for Col. Brown. 
5 T is only girls and babes who wear 

Such shoes this time of year. 
How shall I get a pair of boots? 

Do tell me, Katie dear!" 



" Why, these are almost new ones yet, 

Said pretty Katie Gray, 
Taking the shoes that Willie threw 

Disdainfully away. 
" If they would fit, I 'd willing wear 



5< 



30 PRATING FOR A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

Them all the winter through, 
And buy, instead of shoes for me, 
A pair of boots for you." 

"Do try them on!" then Willie said. 
"O dear, they will not go! 
Why can 't you pare your heels and toes ? 

Somebody did, you know. 
But that was when the fairies lived — 

I wish that one lived now; 
She 'd squeeze your feet, and wave her wand, 
So they 'd go on somehow." 

"No, Willie dear, they will not fit — 

A thought has come to me: 
When papa died, the preacher said 

God would our Father be. 
And He 's for sure, while fairies live 

Only in book and song. 
Now, if we ask Him, I believe 

He '11 send some boots along." 

"O, God!" said Willie, kneeling down, 
"Will you my Father be? 
Papa is dead, and will you send 

A pair of boots to me? 
And please have red tops on them, too, 

With heels to make me tall, 
That, when I go to ask for work, 
They will not say 'too small.'" 



PRAYING FOR A PAIR OF BOOTS. 

Somebody stood outside the door, 
Who heard poor Willie's prayer. 
"Those children's faith is strong," he said; 
"An answer will go there." 
He went himself and bought some boots, 

To Willie they were given; 
And that 's the wav the Father took 
To send them down from heaven. 



3 1 




Che Boy in the iBar&en. 




BOY went out in the garden one day — 
Too lazy to work — to make a survey 
Of whate'er might come by chance in his way, 

June was the month — the most lovely and fair; 
The sky was light blue, and fragrant the air; 
He whistled his song of freedom from care. 

He stopped to look at the old elm tree; 
"What is that rapping and tapping?" quoth he; 
"Who can be knocking? Perhaps it's for me. 

Ah ! Mr. Woodpecker, it 's your sharp drill, 
Boring the tree, the poor insects to kill, 
Your small, hungry stomach ever to fill! 

Quite different, indeed, is good Mrs. Wren; 
She does not feed on her neighbors, I ken, 
But sings of good will and peace to all men. 

She is a bride, but no satin or lace, 

Quilled plaitings and ruffles, about her I trace; 

I 'm glad there 's one wife with such simple grace. 



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THE BOT IN THE GARDEN. 33 

T dislike girls who run after the style, 

Who put on such airs, who simper and smile, 

And still think of their gewgaws all the while. 

There comes the big wasp! The ugly old thing! 
I suppose he thinks he '11 give me a sting, 
Because I 've given the girls such a fling. 

O, how he scolded and buzzed in my ear! 
He is a maker of paper, I hear; 
I wonder if one of his mills is near. 

Fine fibers of wood he gathers, they say, 
And makes a soft pulp in some unknown way. 
I '11 give a wide berth to his mill today. 

There! why can't a fellow look where he goes? 
I've broken a spider's rope with my nose; 
He'll want satisfaction, now, I suppose. 

Ah, no! how patiently he goes about 
Repairing the break — no frown, not a pout; 
His good spinning machine never gives out. 

Here comes the beetle-bug, mournful and grim; 
I didn't wish to make acquaintance with him. 
He is a grave-digger, solemn and prim. 

He's looking for business — coming this way. 
Now I don't wish to be buried today, 
I '11 let him pass on and find other prey. 
3 



34 THE BOY IN THE GARDEN. 

What is this settlement here in the sand? 
By right of possession ants hold this land, 
And they are a bustling, wide-awake band. 

This is the Chamber of Commerce, I ween, 

And here 's where the Board of Trade men convene, 

Where samples of corn and wheat can be seen. 

O, how hard they work, their trades to complete, 
Snarling and fighting o'er one grain of wheat, 
And each one trying his neighbor to beat. 

The good golden rule I'm sure they don't know; 
'Tis plain to Sunday-school none of them go, 
Or else, I do think, they would not act so. 

I know it's noon by the clock in the sky; 
I '11 go to dinner. Sometime they must die ; 
The grave-digger '11 come along by and by. 

This world of ours is a live, working one; 
I'll weed out the beets when dinner is done, 
Tho' it is hard work to weed in the sun." 




Bessie IftcKay's ]ourney> 




HE engine was puffing, the whistle was blowing, 
The train from the West was only four miles away; 
The depot was crowded with people in waiting, 
Who were leaving the city that hot summer day. 



Apart from the crowd, at the end of the platform, 

With a large basket in hand, a little girl stood; 

'Twas Bessie McKay, and she asked everybody 

To buy some of her fruit, which was fresh, sweet and good, 

The through train came into the " Great Union Depot," 
And the people all thronged in the palace-cars then; 
The little girl put down her basket, and counted 
The pennies she had taken — they only made ten! 

1 T was fifty cents, surely, the father expected ; 
She was afraid to go home with only so few. 
She looked at the train passing out of the station, 
And wished that she was going a long journey, too. 

She looked at her dress — it was dirty and ragged; 
Then thought of the children in their clean linen suits; 
And hid her bare feet from the gaze of the passers, 
As she thought of their stockings and nice buttoned boots. 



36 BESSIE M' KAY'S JOURNEY. 

She heard their loud talk of the beautiful country 
That they all would be in when the journey was o'er, 
Of the shady old woods and the silvery water, 
Of the pebbles and shells they would find on the shore, 

U I wish I could take such a journey this morning," 
The little girl said ; " It would be nice to be there." 
But she lifted her basket, shook her head sadly, 
"I have only ten pennies — they won't pay the fare!" 

An hour or more after the train left the city, 

A policeman was passing a narrow by-street; 

He saw a child fall, and the crowd that soon gathered 

Said "'Tis Bessie McKay, overcome with the heat." 

He carried her into the tenement dwelling, 
But they could not awake her to life any more; 
The spirit had taken a journey that morning 
To the beautiful country — the heavenly shore. 

The angels had carried her out of the city, 

And poor Bessie McKay did not have to pay fare; 

For Jesus, the Savior, who loves little children, 

Had paid for her journey, and He welcomed her there. 




Bunnie's journey. 




UNNIE was a little rabbit, 

Most beautiful to see, 
With overcoat so soft and sleek, 
As white as white could be. 
His home was in a dense, dark wood, 

A small house built with care, 
Down under ground, away from sight; 
Nobody knew 'twas there. 

His fond father and mother were 

Quite prudent folks, you know, 
And never allowed sweet Bunnie 

Far out of sight to go. 
They told of hungry prowlers 'round, 

Of many traps and snares; 
How other little Bunnies white 

Were taken unawares. 

But I 'm very, very sorry, 

To be obliged to say, 
That their Bunnie did not heed them; 

One morn he ran away. 
" I will take," .said he, " a journey, 

And see what I can see; 



38 BUNNIE* S JOURNEY, 

My mother is over-careful — 
No harm will come to me." 

So, while his mother worked about, 

Thinking her darling slept, 
Out of his home of love and warmth, 

Poor, foolish Bunnie crept. 
He scampered over brush and leaves, 

Lest she his tracks should find, 
And never stopped to look around 

Till home was far behind. 

Then on a stump did Bunnie climb, 

The wide, wide world to view. 
"These trees and shrubs are just like ours," 

Said he; "There's nothing new." 
So, disappointed, down he jumped, 

To rest his weary feet; 
And, being hungry, too, he wished 

For something good to eat. 

" If I 'd only taken breakfast 
Before I left!" said he; 
" My mother always did prepare 
Some dainty bit for me. 
Perhaps there's something hereabout; 

I wish that I knew where." 
But, as he started up to look, 
He fell into a snare. 

Poor, little Bunnie! he was fast; 
He could get out no more. 



BUNNIE'S JOURNET. 39 

He cried aloud, but he was miles 

Away from mother's door; 
She could not hear her darling cry, 

And come to his relief. 
An ugly boy was standing near, 

Who laughed at Bunnie's grief. 

Out of the trap he took his prize, 

And chuckled loud with joy 
To think he had poor Bunnie safe — 

That naughty, selfish boy! 
He took him off a long, long way, 

And Bunnie found, at last, 
Himself shut up in a dark pen, 

The door closed sure and fast. 

Poor Bunnie's heart was broken, then; 

He longed to be at home; 
The wide, wide world was naught to him; 

He died, that night, alone. 
Dear little boys and girls, 'tis true 

The world is very wide; 
But you'll ne'er find a place so dear 

As your own home fireside. 




Che 3¥lai6 an6 Her Jflilhpail. 




WAS milking-time one summer's morn, 

Some fifty years ago; 
A maiden from a kitchen came, 
Her face was all aglow; 
Upon her arm a wooden pail 
Was swinging to and fro. 

A 'kerchief pinned beneath her chin; 

A blue checked apron tied 
Around her waist so small and trim, 

And fastened at the side; 
And as she passed, she rolled from sight 

Her sleeves so long and wide. 

With lightened step and cheerful song, 

She to the barnyard hies, 
Where quiet cows, in sweet content, 

Are brushing off the flies. 
A milking-stool upon the ground 

In patient waiting lies. 

Quickly she lifts the wooden stool, 

And, sitting down so prim, 
She milks away until her pail 



THE MAID AND HER MILK'PAIL. 41 

Is filled up to the brim; 
Then tripping off, she leaves the rest 
For "Pa, and brother Tim." 

Then with the milk she speeds her way, 

A mile, to yonder town, 
Where she will sell it, and will get 

The money all paid down; 
She '11 then buy eggs, which, when they ''re hatched, 

Will get a new green gown. 

A new green gown! she's wished one long; 

How nice she '11 look when dressed. 
Some wear a blue, some wear a red, 

But green becomes her best. 
She'll put it on when Tom comes 'round — 

Nobody knows the rest. 

The rustic maiden tossed her head, 

She thought she 'd look so well, 
When lo! upon the ground the milk, 

The eggs, the gown, all fell! 
Poor, luckless maid! The milk all spilled, 

Her sorrow who could tell? 

Milkmaids of life are we; we have 

Burdens where'er we go; 
Counting on gains that ne'er are made — 

Think we'll buy so and so — 
Tossing our heads high in the air, 

The milk all falls below. 



42 THE MAID AND HER MILKPAIL. 

The milk once spilled, we pick not up. 

With disappointed mien 
The milkmaids pass by, one by one, 

Without their gowns of green! 
Each maid has stumbled o'er some stone 

Which ne'er before was seen. 





ISfext Christmas Jttormng. 




HOW happy is the home where little bare feet 
Will move softly about, and where faces so sweet 
Will come at daylight, and, without any warning, 
Kiss the "old folks" awake on next Christmas- 
morning. 

When golden-haired children, in such wee robes of white, 
Will give loved Christmas wishes — then ask if last night 
Good old Santa Claus found all those stockings so small, 
With the red and white stripes, which were hung on the 
wall. 

How the sleepy "old folks" will rub open their eyes, 
At the . chimney-place look, and express such surprise 
When the stockings are spied, stuffed as full as can be, 
And the children, delighted, shout out in their glee. 

Although richer by far, when sweet childhood is o r er, 
May the treasures of life be which fall to their store; 
Yet not one with such welcome and love will be fraught, 
As the toys in the stockings, which Santa Claus brought. 

Oh, the homes without wee ones! We pity them so! 
They will lose the best part of the Christmas, we know. 
Tho' the "old folks" can sleep just as late as they please, 
We'll awake before dawn, but not envy their ease. 




l£Jhi$tle Tfthen you're Coming Chrough, 




OYS and girls are full of steam, 
Puffing, blowing as they go — 
Some are like lightning-trains, 

Some more careful ones, and slow, 
The slow trains make the surest time; 
Don't you think the old folks know? 

Lightning-trains must " Go ahead ! " 

Without waiting long to see 
Whether all the track is clear; 

Perchance on the road there '11 be 
Misplaced switches, broken rails, 
Or a bridge built carelessly. 

How much damage those fast trains 
In this world of ours have done! 

Off the track, and being smashed, 
Is not, after all, such fun; 

Whistling "down brakes," when too late, 
Will not save the reckless one. 

Stop and think before you start; 

Hear your conscience say "All right!" 



WHISTLE WHEN TOWRE COMING THROUGH. 45 

Thro' the world then speed your way; 

Take aboard, by day and night, 
Tired travelers, going home 

To the land of love and light. 

Boys and girls, you 're full of schemes, 

Enterprises, always new. 
In the engineering line, 

No one knows what you may do: 
Do n't come on us unawares ; 

Whistle when you 're coming thro' ! 





lUur Baby. 




UR baby's dead! Step softly, now, 

Across the nursery floor; 
That little one we loved so well 
Will be with us no more. 
Lift up the snowy coverlid 
From off her cradle-bed, 
And put a rosebud in her hand ; 
Our Ella dear is dead. 

A few short weeks ago, she came 

And nestled on my breast,' 
Like some poor little wandering bird 

That had come home to rest. 
Within our hearts we sheltered her, 

And loved her more each day; 
And in our home of loneliness 

We bade dear Ella stay. 

But in an unexpected hour — 

We tho't not death would come : — 

Bright angels tuned their harps to call 
Our darling Ella home. 

A smile was on her little face, — 
They whispered then, 1 knew; 



OUR BABT. 47 

I seized her in mine arms, for ah! 
I feared she heard them, too. 

I knew they had not come for me, 

For infant lyres were strung; 
And hov'ring 'round our baby's form, 

Their sweetest songs they sung. 
I clasped her to my heart, and cried, 

44 Our Ella must not go! 
Ye angel ones, fly back to heaven, 

And leave her here below!" 

But ah! they did not heed my voice, 

Nor would my Ella stay, 
For on their angel wings I saw 

Our darling soar away. 
I raised my eyes; — at Jesus' throne, 

Bright wings to her were given, 
And strains of sweetest music came 

From Ella's harp in heaven. 




Franhie's 3Sfew year's iBift 




AMMA," said Frankie, New Year's morn, 

"I had a dream, last night, 
Which waked me O, so long before 
The coming of the light! 
While lying on my bed, I thought 

It really must be true, 
And longed to have the daylight come, 
To tell it all to you. 

You said, last night, you were too poor 

A New Year's gift to buy, 
And when you gave a good-night kiss, 

A tear was in your eye. 
You need not sorrow any more; 

An angel brought one down, 
Last night, that's better far to me 

Than all I saw in town. 

I fell asleep, while looking at 

That pretty, golden star, 
Which twinkles at me every night 

From its blue home afar. 
When all at once upon its rays 

A white winged angel came, 



FRANKIE'S NEW TEAR'S GIFT. 49 

And, standing by my little bed, 
She softly spoke my name; 

Then handed me a golden sword — 

'This, Frankie, is for you.' 
I read upon the sheath, ' The Good, 

The Beautiful, and True.' 
I drew it out; upon the blade, 

'Fighting against the Wrong,' 
In large, raised letters, met my eye; 

And then she said, 'Be strong.' 

' I 'm but a crippled boy,' said I ; 

'This sword is not for me. 
I am not good or beautiful, 

My scar-marked face you see; 
And very much, kind one, I fear, 

That I 'm not always true ; 
I 'm not the boy the sword is for, 
I'll give it back to you.' 

Then, mamma dear, she sweetly said, 

'Your ill-scarred face I see, 
But if you 're good and true, my boy, 

Then beautiful you '11 be.' 
She put the sword in my weak hand, 

Said, 'Fight against the Wrong!' 
And then, mamma, I promised her 

I would, the whole year long. 

I could not find it when I woke, 
Tho' I looked all around; 
4 



50 FRANKIE'S NEW TEAR'S GIFT. 

But something whispered, c In your heart 
Your New Year's gift is found.' 

The sword is there, I '11 use it well, 
I'll fight against the wrong, 

Be good and true, and God will make 
Me beautiful and strong." 





Che HSfest in the 3¥laple iTree* 




UITE hidden away in the maple tree, 
That shadeth the rich man's door, 
Is the snuggest nest that ever could be, 
And the mother-bird, quite happy is she, 
While watching her nestlings four. 

The little bird's dress is of somber brown, 

'T is fitted with taste and care, 
But there 's not a ruffle sewed on her gown, 
Or overskirt hanging gracefully down; 

No jewels hath she to wear. 

In the rich man's house, that the maples shade, 

Sitteth a lady today, 
Whose small, jeweled hands in her lap are laid; 
Her longing eyes from her work have strayed 

To the bird's home over the way. 

She envies the mother, so brown and plain — 

This queen of the mansion high — 
As she hears the birdlings twitter the strain 
Of love's soft music again and again, 
And a tear drops from her eye. 



THE NEST IN THE MAPLE TREE. 

She weareth rich robes of purple and gold, 

And diamonds are on her breast; 
Yet there is a sorrow to all untold, 
A life that is hungry, thirsty and cold — 
Ah! hers is an empty nest! 

The world passes by and envies the home 

Of the lady so rich and gay; 
She weeps by the window, unseen, unknown 
Sweet little nestlings she longeth to own, 

Like the mother over the way. 





Jflissirxg. 



E 'S missing since the fire," she said, 

Our Bennie, aged two; 
His hair was of a golden shade, 
His eyes were large and blue, 
His little face was round and fair, 
And very pretty, too. 

A short, gored dress of woolen plaid, 

The colors blue and white, 
A thick, warm cloak of dark-brown felt, 

With trimming gay and bright, 
And velvet cap with scarlet plume, 

Were what he wore that night. 

The flames came on so suddenly, 

I had no time to spare; 
I caught up Bennie in my arms — 

He was my greatest care — 
And bade the children follow on — 

Follow, I knew not where. 

Out in the smoky, crowded street, 
Trampled and pushed were we. 
I never felt so strange before, 



54 



MISSING. 

I could not hear or see; 
And what took place that fatal night 
Is all a blank to me. 

When morning came I woke to life; 

On the cold ground I lay. 
I asked for Bennie, but they said 

I dropped him on the way. 
4 He's missing,' spoke a kindly voice; 
'You'll find him through the day.' 

Up to the large, stone church I went, 

The missing ones to view; 
I wandered through the long, broad aisle, 

And looked into each pew; 
No child had Bennie's golden hair, 

And none his eyes of blue. 

Then to the morgue, with trembling heart 

And tearful eyes, I sped; 
Upon each little blackened form 

I gazed with anxious dread; 
But, as I looked, I saw no trace 

Of Bennie 'mong the dead. 

I offered a reward for him — 

My pretty diamond ring; 
Of all our worldly goods, we saved 

This single precious thing. 
They say five hundred dollars, cash, 

At any time 't will bring. 



MISSING. 

I was so sure some one would come 
To bring him back once more, 

That, when I went to get relief, 
I always asked for four; 

Thinking each day, when I went home, 
He 'd meet me at the door. 

But days and weeks have passed, and yet 

We only number three. 
They say that God's own ways are best, 

And I must willing be; 
But oh, I am so unresigned! 

Savior, do pity me! 

I will believe the angels found 

That missing child of mine; 
And in our Father's house above 

We '11 meet again sometime. 
Savior, my arms of love, I know, 

Were weaker far than Thine! 



55 




By-an6-By. 

u By the street of 'By -and- By* rue arrive at the house of ' Never. s ' " — Old Proverb 

pin HERE is a street called "By-and-By," 
Slf Where children oft' wander, 

And so much of their precious time 
Needlessly do squander. 
Upon that street there is a house 

Detectives call "Never;" 
The thief of time is dwelling there, 

Prowling : round forever. 
He meets the children on the road, 

And, with a smiling face, 
Invites them to his pleasure-grounds 

With such a show of grace; 
He joins them in their sports, until 

He 's led them all astray, 
To some lone corner, then he steals 

Their wealth of time away. 
Ah, me! how little ones do find 

The golden hours are gone; 
All the diamond minutes, too, 

The Father gave at dawn: 
Alas ! they Ve lost papa's fond smile, 

And mamma's kiss at night, 



BT-AND-BT. 57 

The teacher's marks of merit, too, 

For lessons all conned right. 
No search-warrant, or threat of law, 

These treasures can reclaim; 
Once lost, no power of love or prayer 

Can win them back again. 
There is a road that 's always safe ; 

Read what its guide-posts say: 
"Put not off until tomorrow, 

What should be done today." 
The Father gives a jewel-case 

Into the children's care, 
At early dawn; He wants, at night, 

To find each diamond there. 
Let every little child take heed, 

And never more be found, 
With all his precious store of wealth, 

On such enchanted ground. 




Che iDrphan's TOl. 




N the banks of a silver lake, 

Where day and night the great waves break, 

Cov'ring the shore with foam, — 
Where pebbles and shells thickly lie, 
And moss-grown rocks are green and high, 
Stands a Poor-Children's Home. 



The house is £arge, and wide, and free; 
Each little homeless one can be 

Taken inside its door; 
For ready there are soft, white beds, 
To pillow weary, orphaned heads 

Who have a home no more. 



From a dingy room came one day 
An orphan, at the Home to stay — 

His mother had just died; 
None of the neighbors took him in, 
Because he was sickly and thin. 

How bitterly he cried! 

The ladies at the Home were kind; 
They wiped his tears, and went to find 



THE ORPHAN'S WILL. 59 

Some pretty little toy. 
A Noah's ark one lady found, 
Then told about the saved and drowned, 

Pleasing the orphan boy. 

Long days he lay upon his bed, 

And, scattered o'er the nice, white spread, 

Were Noah and his train. 
He played from daylight until dark; 
He marched the couplets in the ark, 

Then marched them out again. 

But sicker grew the homeless one; 
At last, when the long day was done, 

And all had gone to sleep, 
He said, " They '11 come tonight, I know ; 
I '11 give my ark, before I go, 

To some one else to keep." 

He raised his dizzy, weary head, 
Then looked upon each little bed, 

And thought, Which shall it be? 
That little white-faced, humpbacked boy — 
Poor Johnny Blake — he'd like the toy, 

And would remember me. 

The other boys are well and strong, 
They play about the w T hole day long, 

Their hearts are always light; 
But Johnny Blake — poor, crippled child — 
Since he came here has never smiled; 

I'll make him smile tonight. 



60 THE ORPHAN'S WILL. 

" Wake, Johnny, wake!" said he, quite low, 
Lest sleeping ones should wake and know.; 

" List what I have to say : 
This ark I '11 give you for your own, 
For, Johnny, I am going home 
Before the break of day. 

I 've been asleep, and when I woke, 
It seemed as if my mother spoke, 

Just as she did when here; 
And, while you all were sleeping sound, 
Angels seemed hov'ring all around, 

And music came quite near. 

You know, when I 'm an angel there, 
For toys like this I shall not care; 

I'll have a harp of gold. 
An orphan I '11 no longer be ; 
My angel mother over me 

Her pure white wings will fold. 

Here, Johnny, take the ark tonight; 

The moon shines through the window bright, 

Come over to my bed." 
The humpbacked boy the treasure took; 
" You 11 think of me whene'er you look 

At this," the orphan said. 

Beautifully the morning broke; 
The humpbacked boy again awoke, 
The treasure in his hand; 



THE ORPHAN'S WILL. 



6l 



' T was all the orphan had to give, 
Who now on earth had ceased to live — 
Gone to the better land. 

Gone to the Children's Home above, 
To have a Father's endless love, 

To lie upon His breast; 
Passed safely through the pearly gates, 
Where Jesus for the homeless waits 

To give the wand'rers rest. 

Treasures have all of us below; 
How well 't would be, before we go, 

If ours were also given 
To make the sad-faced children smile; 
Laying up for ourselves, the while, 

Treasures above in heav'n. 




Bella's Bundle, 




AMMA dear," said little Bella, 
" I 'm afraid to sleep tonight ; 
Don't go down and leave me, mamma, 
Or blow out the burning light ; 
Come and sit here close beside me, 
Put your soft hand on my head; 
I 'm afraid before the morning, 
Dearest mamma, I '11 be dead." 

"What's the matter, darling Bella?" 

Kindly mamma did reply; 
"Are you sick, or what's the reason 

That you think you soon may die?" 
u O, dear mamma, there 's a bundle 

Very heavy lying here; 
Right upon my heart I feel it, 

And it fills my soul with fear. 

I have been so very naughty: 

Thinking that no one would know, 

I went away and played for hours, 
Where you told me not to go. 

All the time I felt unhappy, 

Though I knew you could not see; 



BELLA'S BUNDLE. 63 

Something whispered every minute, 
c God in heaven looks at me.' 

Then I felt this great, big bundle, 

Lying here within my breast, 
And I thought that it would leave me 

When I got in bed to rest; 
But it only grew more heavy. 

Dearest mamma, can 't you say 
What will make me glad and happy, 

Taking all the load away?" 

"Yes, dear Bella; go to Jesus, 

Ask him to forgive your, sin; 
From your heart he '11 take the bundle, 

Giving peace and rest within." 
Out of bed jumped little Bella, 

Then she knelt beside a chair, 
And, when she had prayed to Jesus, 

Lost her heavy bundle there. 

It is gone," said little Bella; 
" Kiss me, mamma dear, good-night. 
I am not afraid to stay, now; 

You may take downstairs the light." 
Bella felt so glad and happy, 

That she soon was fast asleep; 
God sent angels down from heaven, 

O'er her form a watch to keep. 

Little children, have you bundles, 
Like poor Bella's, on your heart? 



u 



6\ 



BELLA'S BUNDLE. 

If you pray to Christ to help you, 
He will bid them all depart. 

Jesus takes off all the bundles, 
When the children ask him to, 

For He came from heav'n to rescue 
Just such little ones as you. 





iChristmae £ue. 



IS Christmas Eve. The tireless clock tolls the swift 




hours away, 
And my household all are sleeping, dreaming of 
Christmas day. 
My many cares and duties have been finished," one by 

one, 
But yet there's always something left — my work is never 

done; 
So I sit down by the cradle, my little one to rock, 
And, while I sing a nursery song, I knit a little sock. 



I 'ye been filling little stockings with candy and with toys, 
And hung them by the chimney place, to please my little 

boys : 
They 're sleeping sweetly in their cribs ; I Ve tucked the 

clothes in tight; 
I 've heard them say their evening prayer, and kissed them 

both good-night; 
And I know that ere the daylight shall through the curtain 

peep, 
Their "Merry Christmas" wishes will awake me from my 

sleep. 

5 



66 CHRISTMAS EVE. 

I have many thoughts, tonight, which are very sad to me: 
Only two stockings hang this year, where three were wont 

to be. 
The tears are falling thick and fast; I think of that sad day 
When I laid that little stocking forevermore away; 
The little one who hung it there, but one short year ago, 
In yonder graveyard sleepeth now, so quiet 'neath the snow. 

O, how many of the stockings that, on last Christmas day, 
Were filled for darling little ones, have since been put 

away! 
How many smiling faces, that to our nursery door 
Then came, wishing " Merry Christmas," will come again 

no more! 
For their waxen hands are folded upon each quiet breast, 
And the Shepherd good has gathered them within his arms 

to rest. 

How many bright, pleasant visions, and oh, what sad ones, 

too, 
With each succeeding Christmas Eve, come vividly to view! 
I see again my childhood's home, and every loved one's 

face; 
The stockings hanging, as of yore, around the chimney 

place, 
From the wee red one of baby's, to grandpa's sock of gray, 
Each in its own accustomed place, not even one away. 

But the pleasant vision passes, and one of darker shade 
Shows how many, many changes each passing year has 
made; 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 6>] 

For those of us whose stockings once did hang there, side 

by side, 
In happy days of childhood, are now scattered far and wide; 
A few are lingering yet to see this Christmas Eve pass by, 
But many, many more, tonight, within the churchyard lie. 

The baby's sock is done — 'tis covered o'er with many 

tears ; 
Oh! where will those tiny feet wander in the future years? 
Perhaps this little babe will live to see, as I have done, 
The bright Christmas Eves of childhood all pass off, one 

by one. 
But whether a life of sorrow, whether a life of joy, 
I feel that I can trust with God my much loved, darling 

bov. 

The clock has struck the hour of twelve; I've put the 

sock away, 
And by my baby's cradle, this ev'ning, I kneel to pray — 
To ask the Savior, who to us one Christmas morn was 

given, 
To save our souls from sin and death, and fit us all for 

heav'n : 
That He would guide us while we stay, and fill us with 

His love, 
That we mav all together sino- a Christmas hymn above. 



Little Snow. 




^ 



E were waking in the morning, 

Rubbing sleep out of our eyes, 
When our elder brother, Georgie, 
Looking with a glad surprise, 
Shouted, "Children, waken quickly; 
Snow is falling from the skies!" 

With our snowy night-clothes, falling 

Softly o'er our little feet, 
'Cross the room we quickly pattered, 

Climbing on the window-seat; 
And, when we had seen the snow fall, 

Laughing, made a quick retreat 

To the place where shoes and stockings 
Slept all night upon the floor; 

Our little feet jumped into them, 
Quicker than they 'd done before ; 

Then the first who finished dressing 
Started out our bedroom door. 

Soon the others passed out after, 

One by one, until we all, 
Capped and mittened for a sled-ride, 



LITTLE SNOW. 69 

Gathered in the outer hall; 
But, when ready for the journey, 
Heard our auntie to us call: 

"Children, come up to the nursery; 

I have something here to show, 
Which you '11 think is so much prettier 

Than this morning's falling snow." 
But we doubted what she told us, 

And were very loth to go. 

Then our little sister, Sarah, 

Always ready to obey, 
Laid her hood and worsted mittens, 

With her Christmas sled, away; 
And said, " I 'm going to listen 

To what auntie dear may say. ,? 

Soon her little brother, Eddie, 

Doffed his warm cap, trimmed w r ith fur, 
And said, "Come, Georgie and Nannie, 

Let us go upstairs with her." 
But poor, disappointed Nannie 

From the new sled would not stir. 

Then her elder brother, Georgie, 

Said, "O, Nannie, don't you know 

That our auntie just now told us 

She had something nice to show?" 

13ut she said, " I know it 's nothing 
Half so pretty as the snow." 



7 o 



LITTLE SNOW. 

Once again our auntie called us, 
And we hastened up the stair; 

But our boots made such a clumping 
That dear auntie met us there, 

And she said, "Each go on tiptoe 
To your papa's rocking-chair." 

So we marched, in Indian fashion, 
Georgie leading on the van, 

And auntie, bringing up the rear, 
Hand in hand with little Nan. 

But what was in the rocking-chair? 
Anybody guess, who can! 

It is but a flannel blanket; 

"See," said Eddie, "we are sold." 
u No," said Sarah; "dear, good auntie, 
I believe, the truth has told. 
Let us take the cosy bundle, 

And its wrappings all unfold." 

But, before we saw its contents, 

This curious bundle stirred; 
And, while each one stood in wonder, 
From its depths a noise was heard. 
Nannie clapped her hands, and shouted,. 
"'Tis a kitten or a bird!" 



Auntie said, " I '11 show you, children 
And she took, w^ith kindest care, 

The mysterious flannel bundle 
Out of papa's rocking-chair. 



5 



LITTLE SNOW. J I 

Then we all peeped in so softly; 

Can you guess what we saw there? 

Well, it was a baby sister 

Whom we never saw before. 
Auntie said that God had sent her, 

As a present for us four; 
We all said that we would love her, 

And would thank Him evermore. 

All that day we spent in council, 
As to what her name should be; 

But, of all that each one thought of, 
On not one could we agree; 

So we told papa our trouble, 

When he sat that night at tea. 

"The world is full of names," said he; 

"Some are very pretty, too." 
" Yes," we said ; " but we Ve decided 
That it must be something new; 
Ours is such a pretty baby 

That an old name will not do." 

"It was such a snowy morning, 
When our little sister came, 
And her heart," said thoughtful Sarah, 

"Is so free from spot or stain, 
That, I think, of all the others, 

Snow would be the prettiest name. 

She looked like a little snowdrift, 
Lying snug in papa's chair; 



7 2 



LITTLE SNOW. 



And the white clothes in the bureau, 
Which were sent for her to wear, 

Looked like piles of little snowdrifts, 
Lying still and lightly there." 

"You have chosen well," said papa; 
"Children, don't you all think so?" 
And we all replied in concert, 

"That's the nicest name we know." 
So we told mamma and auntie 

That the baby's name was Snow. 

Now the evening lamps are lighted, 
And we all must go to bed; 

When we pray we '11 ask for larger 
Portions of "our daily bread," 

For the Father good has sent us 
A new sister to be fed. 



-1 fKs 




Trailing for the Cram, 




N the cottage on the hill, 
Sitting on the window sill, 
Looking down the road below, 
With her soft, blue eyes aglow, 

Softly humming some love strain, — 

Bessie waited for the train. 

'Twas a morning bright in spring; 
Birds flew 'round on happy wing. 
Full of music was the air; 
Love seemed nestling everywhere, 
And in Bessie's heart, so true, 
Thoughts of love were hiding, too. 

It was coming; and her heart 
Gave a wild and sudden start, 
As the clock struck, slowly, ten, 
And the whistle, in the glen, 
Of the train, so very near, 
Fell upon her waiting ear. 

Thund'ring on with noisy din, 

Bessie saw the train come in; 

Soon her large, bright eyes descried, 



74 WAITING FOR THE TRAIN. 

Stepping off the platform wide, 
One, who hastened up the hill, 
Looking toward the window sill. 

Quick, behind the curtain white, 
Bessie hid far out of sight. 
O! the maiden, shy and coy, 
Thought to hide her heartfelt joy — 
Thought to play a foolish part, 

All unknown to her young heart. 

When she heard the gate's loud click, 
And his step, so firm and quick, 
Waiting not a moment more, 
Opened she the cottage door; 
And the lovelight in her eyes 
Quite dispelled the false disguise. 

Pretty Bessie, could you know 
How these love trains come and go, 
You would not so falsely play 
In the glad and fresh spring day. 
O, be artless, trusting, true, 
To the heart that 's given you. 

To many, now, the autumn 

Comes, whose spring was fresh as thine; 

And, amid the faded leaves, 

Empty nests, ungathered sheaves, 

They sit and wait, all in vain; 

Young love gone comes not again. 



iDnly iDne Little Beam. 




HE clouds had been thick for many a day, 
And had hidden the shining sun away, 
When one little beam of its cheerful light 
Got tired of being so long out of sight. 

Among the clouds was a speck of blue sky, 
And this very soon the beam did espy; 
So it softly stole through the opening blue, 
For it wanted to find something to do. 

It came at once to this great 'world of ours, 
And, looking 'round, saw a few spring flowers 
That were trying, after the long, cold rain, 
To hold up their heads in beauty again. 

"Poor flowers, you are almost chilled to death," 
Whispered the beam with its soft, warm breath; 

" I will lift you up, for you do n't complain, 
If you have been beaten down with the rain." 

It warmed and lifted the crocuses up, 
Leaving a smile in each small, purple cup; 
And with beauty was filled the humble place, 
By only one beam from the great sun's face. 



76 ONLY ONE LITTLE BEAM. 

Then again the little beam sped its way, 
For it would not lose a moment of day; 
It peered through a crack in a prisoner's cell, 
It danced on the wall and pleased him well. 

< C A beam of light, that to me is given, 
From the golden sun which shines in heaven — 
Which I shall no more see for many years," 
Said the convict man, as he wiped the tears. 

The beam came nearer, and lighted the Book 
In which the poor prisoner turned to look; 
It shone on the words, which were written plain, 
How a sinful man can be free again. 

He read how the Savior came from on high 
To this sinful world to suffer and die; 
Then he prayed through Him to be forgiven, 
And his prayer was heard by God in heaven. 

Once more the little beam wandered away, 

To be free again in the light of day; 

It had left sweet peace in that, dark, lone place, 

Though only one beam from the great sun's face. 

It had not gone far ere a child it met; 
Her pale little cheeks with great tears were wet; 
By a mossgrown grave she sat all alone, 
Spelling her dead mother's name on the stone. 

It listened, and heard the little one say, 
*' They 've taken my mother away, away 



ONLY ONE LITTLE BEAM. J J 

There 's no one to love and smile on me now, 
No soft hand to smooth a poor orphan's brow." 

The little beam shone on her face so sad, 
And played all about her to make her glad; 
It tossed itself up and down in the air — 
The little one, looking, forgot her care; 

For she came away from her lonely seat, 

And chased the bright beam with her little feet, 

Till, weary of playing, she laid he;* head 

On the grave, which she called her mother's bed. 

There she fell asleep, and dreamed a sweet dream, 

For in her ear whispered the little beam: 

It told of an angel mother above — 

The little one saw her sweet look of love; 

She saw the smiles that to her were given 

By father and mother, both in heaven; 

And when she awoke in the churchyard lone, 

She thought she 'd been to her mother's new home. 

Then she smiled, forgetting her weight of care, 
That she had met her angel mother there; 
And 't was made for her the happiest place, 
By only one beam from the great sun's face. 

Onw r ard again sped the beam on its way, 
For 't was drawing quite near the close of day ; 
It bade our great world the kindest good-bye; 
And went back through the rift of clear, blue skv. 



7$ ONLY ONE LITTLE BEAM. 

Then soon behind the high mountain's green crown, 
On the great sun-face did the beam go down; 
In the far-off west it seemed to have died, 
But it rose again on the other side. 

To each little child is one heart given 
By the great All-Father up in heaven; 
Like a sunbeam sent from that Father's face, 
It may light up the humblest, darkest place. 

It may lift the -weary ones up again, 

Who have been beaten down by life's cold rain; 

Of Jesus' love to the prisoner tell, 

Unlocking the door of his lonely cell. 

It may wipe away the mourner's sad tears 
From the cheek of the child, or one of years; 
Wherever it goes make happy the place, 
Though only one beam of the Father's face. 

Then, when the day of its short life is o'er, 
And passes away to be seen no more, 
Though to the world it will seem to have died, 
It will rise again on the other side. 




Huienty years Ago 



Mil' HE springtime has come again, Will, 
t As in the years of yore; 

The maple trees are leafing out 
Before the cottage door; 
And the glad birds have come again, 

Singing their merry glees, 
Building their nests, rearing their young, 
Up in our maple trees. 

The silver brook is dancing, Will, 

Along its pebbly way, 
And on its rocky islands now 

The little children play. 
I Ve watched them at their sport this morn 

The fashions come and go, 
But plays are just the same as ours 

Were twenty years ago. 

The children have their playhouse, Will, 

Just where ours used to be; 
They have their broken bits of ware, 

Their acorn cups for tea. 
The boys split wood and build the fire, 

Just as you did, you know, 



SO TWENTY TEARS AGO. 

When we kept house upon those rocks 
Some twenty years ago. 

The woodbine climbs the lattice, Will, 

And hides the porch from sight. 
Do you remember how it stood? 

Not much above our height. 
I marked the place where your head came 

You marked the place of mine; 
But you and I have grown some, too, 

Since that far-off springtime. 

We have never met since then, Will; 

As wtan I know you not; 
The black-eyed boy of those glad days 

Has never been forgot. 
While sitting in your mansion grand, 

With your proud wife, today, 
I wonder if there comes a thought 

Of "wee wife" Katie Gray. 





threescore years an6 Cen 



$2\ 



(Wy\ \ HE silvery threads of time 
\p^^l_¥ Have gathered on my brow, 

@V§P My threescore years and ten are o'er, 

v My life-dream passeth now. 

I 'm wand'ring once again among 

The scenes of early days, 
To watch, behind my native hills, 
The sun's departing rays. 

I 'm standing in the old churchyard, 

Where many loved ones sleep, 
And o'er their mold'ring graves I 've come, 

The tear of love to weep. 
The sister with the golden curls, 

Who joined me in my play, 
Was the first carried here to rest, 

The first that passed away. 

At every Sabbath's twilight, 

My mother led me here, 
And told me 'neath that mossy spot 

Was little sister dear. 

The phantoms of the past arise, 
6 



82 THREESCORE YEARS AND TEN. 

And I 'm a boy once more ; 
Now again I mingle among 
The scenes beloved of yore. 

The church, where once the Bread of Life 

My father used to break, 
Where young and old each Sabbath came 

To hear the words he spake, 
Is somewhat changed, although the walls 

Are still the same, I know, 
As when my mother led me in, 

A long, long time ago. 

My early home stood by the hill, 

But now in ruin lies; 
The autumn wind is whistling there, 

And through the trees it sighs; 
The dying leaves are on the green 

Where once we used to play, 
Fit emblems of departed hours, 

For all have passed away. 

The old schoolhouse has larger grown, 

Since we were boys and girls, 
And in the corner sits no more 

The pretty one with curls. 
Ah! well do I remember now 

That little cottage white, 
Where after school I stopped to bid 

That pretty girl "good-night." 



THREESCORE TEARS AND TEN. 83 

And when I had to manhood grown, 

With noble, trusting pride 
I took her hand in mine, and pledged 

To love my gentle bride. 
But ah! she was too pure to live, 

The angels called her home, 
And 'neath the willows' bending boughs 

I laid my love, my own. 

Our little one, whose happy voice 

Would ring with childish glee, 
Whose infant lips were taught to pray 

Beside his mother's knee, 
God took to heav'n; and there with Him 

My gems shall ever be; 
They 're safe from this dark world of sin, 

And there they wait for me. 

Earth has no charms to bind me here, 

The joys of life are fled; 
I long to rest my weary form 

Beside the silent dead. 
And while I 'm bending o'er the tomb, 

A blessed hope is given, 
That they are waiting now to bear 

My spirit safe to heav'n. 




Thatching the iCows, 




HEN we lived down in Mapledale, 
You and I, dear brother Joe, 
n the great farm below the mill, 
Forty years or more ago, 
And watched the cows, long summer days, 

Eating the grass and clover, 

How long it seemed to us before 

Our boyhood would be over. 

No wonder, now we often say, 

Summer days were longer then: 
Our father, when the daylight came, 

Called the boys, as well as men; 
And, when the milking all was done, 

We trudged, with feet bare and brown, 
Out in the fields to watch the cows 

'Till the great, round sun went down. 

Ah! when we walked off down the lane, 
'Neath those broad-brimmed hats we wore y 

How father watched us from the barn, 
Mother from the kitchen door. 
" Keep an eye out," our father cried ; 



WATCHING THE COWS. 85 

Mother, "Mind, boys, where you go." 
How very hard and toilsome came 
Each day's bread and butter, Joe. 

5 T was steady work, that watching cows : 

Oft we sat down to complain; 
And then vou know the cows were sure 

To get off into the grain. 
We 'd never seen the great world then ; 

Days at school had been but few, 
But lessons learned in those green fields 

Have helped us our long lives through. 

All work of life is very much 

Like that of watching cows, Joe, 
For, when we do n't look sharply out, 

Grain is trampled down, you know. 
And folks are some like cows, I've found; 

They 're always wand'ring over, 
Thinking their own not half so good 

As neighbor's grass and clover. 

Father and mother long have lain 

In the churchyard, side by side; 
And we 've traveled many a mile 

From Mapledale, since they died. 
But, when I 've neared to paths of sin, 

I 've seen mother in the door, 
And heard her say, "Mind where you go," 

Just as she did years before. 



86 



WATCHING THE COWS. 



Oft, when I Ve grumbled at my lot, 

Leaning on my neighbor's fence, 
And, looking over on his side, 

Wished I had his pounds and pence, ; 
I Ve heard my father, from the loft 

In our old barn, shout again, 
"Keep an eye out;" and, turning, saw 

The destruction of my grain. 

Well, you and I are getting old; 

We '11 soon be done watching, Joe, 
For in that home beyond there is 

No trampling of grain, you know. 
There we shall all rest satisfied, 

For each will love the other, 
And no one want the place that God 

Has given to his brother. 





Che Lighthouse Bell 




VER the waters comes the sound 

Of the old lighthouse bell, 
And through my open window steals 
Its solemn warning knell, 
Waking me with its ceaseless toll, 
Echoing through my inmost soul. 

In vain I press my pillow soft, 

And close my restless eyes; 
The warning from the lighthouse bell 

Bids me at once to rise. 
The fog is dense, the rocks are near, 
The boatmen's hearts are filled with fear. 

Oh, GodJ forbid that any boat 

Be wrecked upon the strand; 
Oh, let the warning bell be heard, 

And guide each safe to land. 
How terrible to sink to sleep 
Down in the dark and silent deep! 

Thanks that I'm safe on land to watch 

The new, glad morning break, 
The flowers their tiny petals ope, 



88 



THE LIGHTHOUSE BELL. 



The birds with songs awake. 
I never knew or felt, before, 
How sweet it is to be on shore. 

I'm safe on land, still not secure; 

Out on the waters wide 
My soul is cast; rocks lie between 

Me and the other side. 
Oh! will my soul be tempest-tossed, 
And in the depths be lost — be lost? 

Oh! shall I hear the warning bell, 

And then be wrecked at last? 
Dear Father, guide my little bark 

'Till all the danger's past; 
Help me to land upon the shore 
Where souls are launched or wrecked no more! 







"She Always JFla6e Home Happy/' 




N an old churchyard stood a stone, 
Weather-marked and stained; 
The hand of time had crumbled it, 
So only part remained. 
Upon one side I could just trace, 
" In memory of our mother " ; 
"She always made home hapoy!" this 
Was chiseled on the other. 



I 'd gazed on monuments of fame, 
High-tow'rmg to the skies; 

I 'd seen the sculptured marble stone 
Where a great hero lies; 

But by this epitaph I paused, 
And read it o'er and o'er, 

For I had never seen inscribed 
Such words as these before. 



"She always made home happy." 

A noble record left! 
A legacy of mem'ries sweet 

To those by death bereft. 
What testimony to her worth 



What 



90 "SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPT. 1 

By those who knew her best, 
Engraven on this plain, rude stone 
That marked their mother's restt 

It was an humble resting place, 

I knew that they were poor, 
But they had seen their mother sink,, 

And patiently endure. 
They had marked her cheerful spirit 

As she bore, one by one, 
Her many burdens up the hill, 

'Till all her work was done. 

So when God stilled her weary heart,. 

Folded her hands so white; 
And she was carried from the home 

She'd always made so bright; 
Her children raised a monument 

That money could not buy, 
As witness of a noble life 

Whose record is on high. 

A noble life! but -written not 

In any book of fame; 
Among the list of noted ones 

None ever saw her name; 
For only her own household knew 

The vict'nes she had won; 
And none but they could testify 

How well her work was done. 



"SHE ALWAYS MADE HOME HAPPY:' 

Better than costly monument 

Of marble rich and rare, 
Is that rude stone whose humble face 

Such tribute fond doth bear. 
O, may we chisel on the hearts 

Of those at home we love, 
An epitaph, whose truth may be 

Witnessed for us above! 



9* 




3tty Boy. 



T was the baby's christening night, 

And my heart was full of joy. 
Dressed in his beautiful robe of white, 
I held him up to the people's sight — 
So proud of my only boy. 



"Suffer the children," the pastor read, 

With his hand on baby's brow; 
"You give him to God," he humbly said; 
I solemnly, slowly bowed my head, 
While God recorded the vow. 




The baby jumped with a happy shout, 

While his face I pressed to mine; 
Somebody said, " There 's a world without, 
And you won't know what your boy's about; 
Now is your happiest time." 

The christening robe and baby hood 
Too soon were out of my arms. 

I found the boy unwilling to stay, 

As the baby did, at home all day; 
The world without had its charms. 



Mr nor. 

So o'er the threshold he wandered out, 
With mother's kiss on his brow; 

I said, as I heard his merry shout, 
" God will watch what my boy is about, 
For He recorded the vow." 

It seemed but a dream ere boyhood, too, 

Was outgrown and laid aside; 
For my only boy to manhood grew, 
And his love for me, so deep and true, 

I watched with a selfish pride. 

But one night I heard, as home he came, 

A song in the air ringing — 
Ah, me! I knew he was not the same, 
That his heart held dear another name, 

Tho' Annie Laurie singing. 

I met him not in the usual way, 

With a kiss and smile of joy ; 
I felt in my heart, what I could n't say, 
That a shadow on my pathway lay, 

'Twixt me and my only boy. 

Years have passed on since I heard that song,. 

And now I am old and gray; 
I find God knew best, and I was wrong; 
A sunbeam fell on our path along, 

And not a shadow, that day. 

Her pure white hand is leading him, now, 
Away from the world without, 



93 



94 



Mr bot. 



Pointing his eye to the thorn-crowned brow 
Of Him who witnessed my solemn vow, 
And knows what my boy 's about. 





Christmas 3Eue* 




Y little ones, with hearts so light, 
With smiling faces all aglow, 
Are gathered in the room tonight, 
For it is Christmas Eve, you know. 
Their childish voices shout with glee, 
While looking at their Christmas-tree. 

But I have left them unawares, 

Lest they should ask me not to leave, 

For I must be alone upstairs, 

Part of the time, this Christmas Eve. 

They cannot comprehend aright 

The thoughts that fill my heart tonight. 

They never saw some faces sweet — 
Some friends of long ago, so dear, 

Whom, Christmas Eve, I used to meet, 
But now who nevermore come here — 

Faces that years ago were hid 

Beneath the closed-up coffin-lid. 

And, as I sit here all alone, 
Those faces once again I see; 



96 CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Dear friends I loved, to them unknown, 
Seem to come here and stay with me; 
And scenes, o'er which Time's curtain rolled 
So long ago, I now behold. 

But, more than all, there waiteth One 
Whose face has never met my sight — 

I shall not look upon the Son 
Until I reach the land of light. 

Dearer to me than all the rest 

Is that dear Friend — I love Him best. 

My many sins, my weakness, too, 
I tell Him, and He hears them all. 

How oft I 've wandered ! Ah ! He knew, 
And saw me by the wayside fall, 

But spurned me not; he lifted me, 

Because of His humanity. . 

O, wonderful humanity! 

By which a brother He became, 
And from the curse of sin made free 

All who believe on His dear name. 
Most precious thought of all, beside, 
That Christ was born, and lived, and diedt 

But, hark! a footstep on the stair! 

They 've missed me from the room below \ 
It is my little "Golden-hair;" 

They want me now, so I must go. 
I'll tell them of the Christ-child born 
So long ago, one Christmas morn. 



Tflahing Pictures* 




/j AXY a poem 's unwritten; 
Many a song 's unsung ; 
Many of the pictures painted 
Never on walls are hung. 

For many an unknown artist 

Sits in the twilight gray, 
And sketches the scenes and faces 

Hid in the heart away; — 

Sketcheth them not upon canvas, 
Although the walls are bare; 

In his heart he blends the colors, 
Hanging the pictures there. 

In his room the rich, proud lawyer 

Sits at the close of day, 
Painting the shy, barefoot maiden 

Raking the new-mown hay. 

In her lowly home Maud Muller, 
The weary household drudge, 

Turns from her cares to picture 
The form of the portly Judge. 



98 MAKING PICTURES. 

The heart that sits by the lone hearth, 
Pictures the loved and lost, 

Whose tired feet so long ago 
Over the river crossed; 

He paints her eyes of heav'nly blue, 
Touches the soft, brown hair; 

The look of love comes back again, 
She seemeth to be there. 

The tearful mother, as she sits 
Watching the red light fade, 

Painteth the mound of autumn leaves, 
'Neath which her boy is laid; 

Traces his form in childish play — 
His toy-cart in his hand — 

So true to life that she forgets 
He 's in the better land. 

These pictures, hid within the heart, 

Are better far than all 
The costly ones, in gilded frames, 

Upon the parlor wall. 

O, thanks to the kind Great Master, 
Who teaches us to make 

Pictures to cheer the lonely heart, 
That seems so near to break! 



3¥ly Neighbor 'itross the TJJay 




ITTIXG by the window, from morning until night, 
Stitching with her fingers as long as there was light; 
Looking worn and weary, with face so pale and thin, 
That told the pain and grief of the tired heart within; 
With eyes bedimmed with tears, and hair already gray, 
She sat by the window — my neighbor 'cross the way. 

Often, w r hen I watched her, I thought that I would call, 

But then I'd never met her — knew her not at all; 

Never saw her going in, never coming out; 

Her character, of course, I could not know about. 

So I watched and waited, as passed day after day, 

And never went to see my neighbor 'cross the way. 

One morning, when I looked, I saw her there no more; 
A piece of rusty crape was hanging on the door. 
I shuddered as I thought, it cannot be she \? dead ! 
"Perhaps it is some friend of hers that's gone," I said, 
" I '11 go right over there ; e'en now perhaps I may 
Speak words of comfort to my neighbor 'cross the way." 

They said she was a stranger. O ! they told me there, 
What sickness and sorrow had fallen to her share; 
That she took in sewing, but weak and weaker grew. 



IOO MT NEIGHBOR 'CROSS THE WAT. 

She died from want of friends and love. Ah! well I knew 
She never saw my tears, as still and cold she lay; 
1 'd called too late upon my neighbor 'cross the way. 

Ah, me! when life is o'er, and I stand at the gate, 

Will the Savior bid me outside its portals wait? 

And say, "I was a stranger, hungry and in need, 

But you did pass me by, and did not clothe and feed"? 

"You did it not to me, O soul!" I fear He'll say, 

"When you did it not to your neighbor 'cross the way." 





Hhe Jftinister's Door-BelL 




HE minister's bell! It was ringing 
Ere morning had scarcely begun; 
And, waiting to speak with the good man, 
Was a weary, sin-laden one. 
The darkness had hidden the City 

To which she would journey that day; 
She wanted some glimpse of its Temple — 
Some light to illumine the way. 

And, when the Zion-bound traveler 

Had seen, through the minister's glass, 
The pathway that leadeth to heaven, 

Through which every pilgrim must pass, 
Another rang loudly and boldly; 

It was "one of the, Lord's own poor"; 
Where should he go for shelter, but to 

The minister's house, to be sure? 

Then along came old Mrs. Grundy, 

Her tales of fresh gossip to tell; 
She rattled them off to the pastor, 

Much as she had rattled his bell. 
Then, when she had finished her story, 

He felt so discouraged and blue, 



102 THE MINISTER'S DOOR-BELL. 

He resolved to ask a dismission, 
Fearing that her gossip was true. 

But, ere he could put it in writing, 

Things wore a new aspect, I -ween, 
For the next who pulled on the bell-knob 

Was large-hearted, good Deacon Greene, 
The bell had a tone in its ringing 

Like the Deacon's own voice, that day, 
As he told the pastor they loved him, 

And voted to give him more pay! 

Then came one who waited and pondered 

Ere he touched the minister's bell; 
He had something very important, 

And was must'ring courage to tell. 
The minister knew, in a minute, 

A wedding was troubling his brain, 
So he helped him out with the question, 

Which he w r on't dread asking again. 

When slowly the daylight was fading 

Afar in the red western sky, 
A messenger touched the bell gently — 

Yes, some one was going to die. 
'T was one of the flock, who was passing 

That night to the Beautiful Land; 
She wanted her shepherd beside her 

Till Jesus took hold of her hand. 

Midnight came ere the busy bell's clang 
Or the minister's work was done; 



THE MINISTERS DOOR-BELL. 

Though weary and worn, he loved to think 
That some to the Master he 'd won. 

His rest was such as the Father gives 
To those whom He calleth His own; 

A faithful record the angels bore, 

That night, up to the great white Throne, 



103 




W~\ %dMJttWJPi p n itnT 



p^'fe -^ 1 h ? 



A Mother's Prayer. 




THANK Thee for the Sabbath eve, 
Father of good, above; 
The still, calm hour when I may ask 
Thee for new strength and love. 
I come again tonight, because 

My heart's o'erwhelmed with care; 
I want to talk alone with Thee; 

Thou wilt my burden share. 
I pray that Thou would'st give me grace, 

Mv duties to fulfill; 
That I may do them, every one, 

According to Thy will. 
Give me that patience which I need 

In leading by the hand 
My little straying, stumbling ones, 

Over this rugged land. 
Help me to ever keep in sight 

Thy presence, on the way, 
That I may follow in Christ's steps, 

And never go astray. 
I pray not for myself alone; 

For, those Thou gavest me 



A M OTHER'S PRATER. 105 

I too would bring before Thy throne, 

And consecrate to Thee. 
Blest Savior, Thou who once did say, 

"Suffer to come to me 
The little children," let me bring 

My little ones to Thee. 
I ask for them not fame or wealth; 

No, Lord; I only pray 
That Thou would'st show their little feet 

The straight and narrow way. 
And, while they walk life's changing path, 

Do Thou their guardian be; 
If they should faint along the road, 

Teach them to lean on Thee. 
When they are called to cross the stream 

Where heaven and earth divide, 
Blest Savior, bear them, in Thine arms, 

Safe to the other side. 




IThe Angel Things. 




HE sky was calm and beautiful, 
The sun had just gone down, 
Wreathing its golden light about 
The mountain's laurel crown. 
The fleecy clouds — light, feath'ry things — 
Fluttered about like angel wings. 

Before an open window lay 

A child with golden hair, 
Which strayed about the pillow white 

That lined the easy chair; 
Over her pale face the sunset ray 

Shed the soft light of lingering day. 

The deep blue eyes looked calmly out 
Upon the rosy west; 
u This window," said the dying child, 
"Dear mother, I love best; 
For, when the day 's been bright and fair r 
The angel wings come over there. 

They've come tonight, dear mother; see 

How quietly they wait. 
Is heaven just o'er that mountain-top? 



THE ANGEL WINGS. 

Is there the pearly gate? 
If I were strong and well, I 'd try 
To reach its summit, green and high. 

The wide, wide river runs between; 

But father dear, I know, 
Across the waters wide and dark 

Our little skiff could row; 
And, once upon the lovely land, 
We 'd climb the mountain hand in hand." 

rc Those are but clouds," the mother said, 

Smoothing the golden hair; 
"'Tis but the light's reflection cast, 
Not wings of angels there; 
Much more to me they look, my child, 
Like snowdrifts on the mountains piled." 

a They 're angel wings," the child replied, 

Lifting her thin, white hand; 
u I see the golden light that shines 
Out from the better land. 
O, nearer draw the easy chair! 
They 're coming, now, to take me there," 

The mother looked, but saw them not; 

Yet o'er the river wide, 
Above the mountain green and high, 

Far to the other side, 
They bore her waiting soul away 
Beyond the golden gates of day. 



107 



io8 



THE ANGEL WINGS. 



The clouds now come at eventide, 
White, fleecy, feath'ry things; 

The mother, watching all alone, 
Sees in them angel wings. 

No more they look like snowdrifts piled, 

But wings that fold her angel child. 




Jfly i£oo6, iDlfc-Fashionefc Mother. 




HEY brought home the portrait last night to me; 
On the parlor wall it is hung. 
I gave to the artist a picture small, 

Which was taken when she was young. 
It's true to life — here's a look in the eyes 

I never saw in another, 
And the same sweet smile that she always wore — 
'Tis my good, old-fashioned mother. 

The hair in the picture's wavy and dark, 

'T was taken before she was gray, 
And the same short curls, at the side, hang down,. 

For she always wore it that way. 
Her hand on the family Bible rests, 

As when, with sisters and brother, 
I knelt at her knee, repeated a verse 

To my good, old-fashioned mother. 

The dress is quite plain, and all out of style, 

Not a puff or ruffle is there; 
No jewels or gems about her are seen — 

She never had any to wear. 
Ambition for wealth, or love of display, 



I IO MT GOOD, OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER. 

We could not even discover; 
Humble in spirit and happy in heart, 
Was my good, old-fashioned mother. 

Her life was crowded with work and with care; 

How did she accomplish it all? 
No one remembers she ever complained, 

Whether burdens were heavy or small. 
Motives of life that were selfish or wrong, 

With Christian grace did she smother, 
And lived for her God, and loved ones at home — 

My true, good, old-fashioned mother. 

The years of her life were only threescore, 

When the messenger whispered, low, 
"The Master is come, and calleth for thee." 

She answered, " I 'm ready to go." 
I gaze alone on her portrait tonight, 

A.vA more than ever I love her, 
And I thank the Lord that He gave to me 

Such a good, old-fashioned mother. 




Thatching at the iBate* 



fUST at twilight of the day, 
In the merry month of May, 

Lingers smiling Kate; 
With her eves so large and brown, 
Leaning, looking up and down, 
Watching at the gate. 

Wreathed with rays of red and gold, 
Waiting, some one to behold — 
Happy, blushing Kate. 
"There, he's coming!" Happy soul, 
A kiss he gives her, just for toll, 
Passing thro' the gate. 

Gone the days of youthful spring; 
Summer comes — and twice again — 

To sweet, trusting Kate; 
Two dear children by her side, 
She looks with a mother's pride, 

Watching at the gate. 

'Neath the trees a father's eyes 
Soon the waiting group desci'ies — 
Happy housewife, Kate. 



112 WATCHING AT THE GATE. 

Papa's arms can clasp the whole. 
Papa kisses all for toll, 

Passing thro' the gate. 

Golden days of summer fade; 
Autumn, with its somber shade, 

Steals softly over Kate; 
Lines of thought and care are seen, 
As she waits with brow serene, 

Watching at the gate. 

How lovingly she looketh down, 
With earnest eyes of autumn brown, 

On her daughter Kate: 
Who, with another by her side, 
Today goes forth a happy bride, 

Passing through the gate. 

The seasons come — how soon they got 
And now the winter's whit'ning snow 

Has drifted over Kate. 
The flakes have fallen in her hair; 
Her footsteps falter, waiting there, 

Watching at the gate. 

The work God gave her is all done; • 
Each piece is folded, one by one — 

Faithful, patient Kate. 
As paler grows the evening red, 
Her last "good-bye; God bless you!" said,, 

She passes thro' the gate. 



8atur6ay Wight. 




T was Saturday night. The busy world 
All its cares was putting away, 
And I sat mending all the children's clothes, 
To wear on the next Sabbath day. 
The baby had only just gone to sleep; 
He 'd been wakeful and fretful too, 
But he could n't be blamed, for I knew a tooth 
Was trying to push its way through. 

My arms were weary, but Tommy's best pants 

Were minus some buttons, he said; 
Willie's new coat had a rip in the sleeve, 

He told me when going to bed. 
The heels of the stockings were all worn out; 

To mend them I could not refuse, 
For indeed it was not the children's fault, 

'T was the uncut pegs in their shoes. 

My mending was left till Saturday night, 

Because Nellie, only just four, 
Had said she must have an overskirt made, 

Or not go to church any more. 

I wonder to see such love of dress shown 

8 



114 SA TURDA r NIGHT. 

By Nellie, so young and so small; 
But she patterns children of larger growth — 
I ought not to wonder at all. 

While stitching so fast, I thought how the hours 

Of the week had stolen away; 
What sheaves had I brought from the world's great field 

To be bound for the judgment day? 
I could not get out last Sabbath to church, 

All the week was crowded with care; 
And the moments were few I found to spend 

Alone, with my Savior, in prayer. 

I think that 's the reason the week went wrong ; 

That I was impatient and tried; 
That I spoke so cross to the children, too, 

When baby was restless and cried. 
O, sadly in need of mending, tonight, 

Is my life, so ragged and torn! 
I Ve no excuse like the children to make, 

Because it is threadbare and worn. 

Perhaps, though, Jesus, who knows all my cares, 

Will put in a strong plea for me; 
And the Father will mend my life again, 

So that stronger next week I '11 be. 
He knows we cannot afford to keep help, 

For John's salary is too small, 
And it costs so much, in these high-priced times, 

To buy food and clothes for us all. 



S A TURD AT NIGHT. 



II 



I thought tonight, as so seldom I find 
A time and a place for prayer, 

That, if I abide in Christ as I should, 
I could speak to Him anywhere. 

The spirit is willing, though flesh is weak; 
I know I shall fall by the way, 

Unless I lean harder on Christ's strong arm 
O, help me, dear Savior, I pray! 




Porter John's iDhilb. 




T is only a child of porter John," 
The rich man said, and he passed right on. 
"It died last night, but he still has five more, 
And he does not have much pay at our store. 

How he contrives to get them food and clothes, 

Is a wonder to me; God only knows. 

Now there is one less, it won't be so tough, 

Although five children are more than enough. 
'The poor man's blessing!' Yes, that's what they say,. 

But I never looked at it in that way." 

In his humble home stood poor porter John, 
And his tears fell quite thick and fast upon 
The pale, cold face of the loved boy who died 
The day before at the evening tide. 
"It has often been hard, dear wife," he said, 
"To get for so many the clothes and bread; 
' But I 'd gladly toil, and never complain, 
If we only had Tommy back again; 
For when things at the store had not gone right, 
And my heart was heavy and sad at night, 
The dear children's smiles, and their words so kind,, 
Put all the great trouble out of my mind; 



■^Mm^H^H 



PORTER JOHN'S CHILD. I I 

Then I thanked the Lord that they all were there. 
O, I never felt we had one to spare!" 

The rich merchant went to his home that night, 

With a cheerful face and a heart so light; 

He thought with such pride of his only heir, 

His noble boy, who awaited him there. 

This very day stocks have gone up, thought he, 

And doubled the gold I'm saving for thee; 

Then he made great plans for the future time, 

When the boy should grow up to manhood's prime. 

Many years have passed, and good porter John, 

Whose hair is now silvered, still lives on. 

The children grew men and women to be, 

And he often says 't is a mysterv 

How he ever kept them in food and clothes; 

O, surely the good Father only knows! 

But they Ve worked their way in the world, until 

They all good positions of trust do fill. 

No traces are left on his wrinkled brow 

Of the toil and care; they minister now. 

He sits at eve with his wife at his side, 

And they talk alone of the bov who died. 

The sun is most down in the western sky, 

And they know that the time draws very nigh 

When they both will go home, and once more meet 

With /their angel boy, on the golden street 

In that land where there's no more toil and care 

To get some food to eat and clothes to wear. 



Il8 PORTER JOHN'S CHILD. 

The rich merchant, too, has been growing old — 
Not only with age, if the truth were told. 
His brow is plowed with deep furrows of care, 
His heart has many sad burdens to bear; 
His gold, his worldly ambition and pride, 
Ruined the boy who once walked by his side. 
Alone in the night, when the storm is wild, 
He pleads with God for his prodigal child. 




Che Pol6e6 Ban6$, 




MALL and white are my Mary's hands, 
Tied together with satin bands, 

Folded over her breast; 
Those hands that, in fresh girlhood's prime, 
Were laid confidingly in mine, 
Are evermore at rest. 

No jewels ever on them shone, 
Only one wedding ring alone — 

A simple band of gold, 
Worn since she first became a bride; 
I could not take it, when she died, 

From that dear hand so cold. 

It was but ten short years ago 

That we were wed. To her, I know, 

Came much of toil and care; 
Those helpful hands, with hearty will, . 
So often carried up the hill 

Burdens too great to bear. 

For Mary was not overstrong, 
But I kept hoping all along 
The sky would clearer be. 



120 THE FOLDED HANDS. 

Cold, adverse winds and drizzling rain 
Seemed always beating on our pane; 
The fog enveloped me. 

And when I grumbled on the road, 
Lost all my faith in man and God, 

She told me of the light 
That through the clouds would break some day, 
In God's own time, upon the way, 

And make the pathway bright. 

The light has come to Mary's eyes, 
In that far land beyond the skies, 

But not a ray I see. 
Dark and more dark life's journey grows; 
I sit and wonder if she knows 

No light has come to me. 

The children come; it is their hour. 
God give me the grace and power 

To kneel with them and pray. 
They '11 miss those hands that kindly shed 
Rich blessings on each bended head, 

At closing of the day. 

Dear mother's hands unfold no more. 
Poor little ones! Her work is o'er. 

O, comfortless are we! 
What meaneth it? I cannot tell. 
She said, "He doeth all things well." 

God pity you and me! 



Heauen 




HEN once, about our cottage door, 
A little, simple child I played, 
The sky to me was the great floor 

Of the grand house that God had made 
And the bright stars that met my sight 
Were angel watchmen of the night. 

Then childish faith and love could see, 

In every lonely, darksome place, 
The Father looking down at me, 

With smiles upon His loving face; 
And fleecy clouds that brightly shone 
Were glimpses of His great white throne. 

In the far west, at soft twilight, 

Amid the beams of red and gold, 
Did heaven's gates of pearly white 

To my enraptured sight unfold. 
At every eve my soul knelt there, 
Borne on the wings of childhood's prayer. 

Ah me! that love and childish trust 

With childhood's years were soon outgrown 
The things of time, of sense, of dust, 



122 HEAVEN. 

Hid from my soul God's great white throne,, 
And the world's mansions towered high 
Above the gates in the western sky. 

Heaven only by its name was known, 
Like some fair city 'cross the sea; 

God, a stern king upon a throne, 

Who cared no more to smile on me; 

And unbelief hid from my sight 

The angel watchers of the night. 

The world was beautiful anc fair; 

I loved its gaudy, glitt'ring toys; 
I gathered all its gifts so rare, 

And gave my soul to all its joys. 
The path to heaven dark became — 
I lost my way, nor asked the same. 

With pity the good Father's eye 

Watched o'er me while I w^ent astray; 

He sent an angel from on high, 
And took my little child away. 

How well the good, wise Father knew 

That I would turn and follow, too. 

Then earthly things to me were naught, 

I longed to find that city fair; 
Amid its strangers one I sought — 

That child of mine — a dweller there. 
I fain would walk the golden street, 
Her dear, sweet face once more to meet. 



HE A VEN. 

Years have flown. I 'm traveling still, 
So worn and weary, old and gray, 

I've almost reached the western hill; 
The sun goes down, 't is closing day. 

Amid the beams of red and gold 

My child's dear hands the gates unfold. 



123 




Are All the iChil&ren 3n? 




HE darkness falls, the wind is high, 
Dense, black clouds fill the western sky; 

The storm will soon begin. 
The thunders roll, the lightnings flash, 
I hear the great, round raindrops dash — 
Are all the children in? 

They're coming softly to my side; 
Their forms within my arms I hide — 

No other arms as sure. 
The storm may rage with fury wild, 
With trusting faith each little child 

With mother feels secure. 

But future days are drawing near, 
They '11 go from this warm shelter here, 

Out in the world's wild din. 
The rain will fall, the cold winds blow; 
T '11 sit alone and long to know, — 

Are all the children in? 

Will the} T have shelters then secure, 
Where hearts are waiting, strong and sure, 
And love is true when tried? 



ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN? 

Or will they find a broken reed, 
When strength of heart they so much need 
To help them brave the tide? 

God knows it all; His will is best. 

I '11 shield them now, and leave the rest 

In His most righteous hand. 
Sometimes the souls He loves are riven 
By tempests wild, and thus are driven 

Nearer the better land. 

If He should call me home before 
The children go, on that bright shore, 

Afar from care and sin, 
I know that I shall watch and wait 
Till He, the Keeper of the Gate, 

Lets all the children in. 



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